Chapter 20

And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things, But is still trod By every wandering clod!

O thou whose spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead! And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name! Grant I may so Thy steps track here below,

That in these masks and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day Which breaks from thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly: Show me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease.

And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain: There, hid in thee, show me his life again At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.

The work of the sun is slow, But as sure as heaven, we know; So we'll not forget, When the skies are wet, There's green grass under the snow.

When the winds of winter blow, Wailing like voices of woe, There are April showers, And buds and flowers, And green grass under the snow.

We find that it's ever so In this life's uneven flow; We've only to wait, In the face of fate, For the green grass under the snow.

ANNIE A. PRESTON.

THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, And yet the monument proclaims it not, Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies, Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone, To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, Lean lovingly against the humble stone.

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart No man of iron mould and bloody hands, Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart: But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, Gentlest in mien and mind, Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.

Nor deem that when the hand that molders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave; Alone her task was wrought, Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid On God alone, nor looked for other aid.

She met the hosts of sorrow with a look That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path. By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! And He who, long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave, Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory, That ministered to thee, is open still.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.

Thou art gone to the grave--but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.

Thou art gone to the grave--and, its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave--but 't were wrong to deplore thee, When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

REGINALD HEBER.

LYCIDAS.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse; So may some gentle muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad song would not be absent long, And old Damætas loved to hear our song. But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone-- Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn; The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream-- Ay me! I fondly dream, Had ye been there; for what could that have done? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble minds) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood; But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged winds That blows from off each beakèd promontory; They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panopè with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! What recks it them? what need they? they are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies, For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more! For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new.

MILTON.

AFTER DEATH.

FROM "PEARLS OF THE FAITH."

_He made life--and He takes it--but instead Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!_

He who dies at Azan[11] sends This to comfort faithful friends:--

Faithful friends! it lies, I know, Pale and white and cold as snow; And ye says, "Abdullah's dead!" Weeping at my feet and head. I can see your falling tears, I can hear your cries and prayers, Yet I smile and whisper this:-- "I am not that thing you kiss; Cease your tears and let it lie: It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! what the women lave For its last bed in the grave Is a tent which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting, Is a cage from which at last Like a hawk my soul hath passed. Love the inmate, not the room; The wearer, not the garb; the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from the splendid stars. Loving friends! be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye: What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl is gone. The shell is broken, it lies there; The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of His treasury, A mind which loved him: let it lie! Let the shard be earth's once more, Since the gold shines in His store!

Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good! Now thy grace is understood: Now my heart no longer wonders What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders Life from death, and death from heaven: Nor the "Paradises Seven" Which the happy dead inherit; Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit Toward the Throne, "green birds and white," Radiant, glorious, swift their flight! Now the long, long darkness ends. Yet ye wail, my foolish friends, While the man whom ye call "dead" In unbroken bliss instead Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true By any light which shines for you; But in light ye cannot see Of unfulfilled felicity, And enlarging Paradise; Lives the life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Where I am, ye too shall dwell. I am gone before your face A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace. When ye come where I have stepped, Ye will marvel why ye wept; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-- Sunshine still must follow rain! Only not at death, for death-- Now I see--is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, that is of all life center.

Know ye Allah's law is love, Viewed from Allah's Throne above; Be ye firm of trust, and come Faithful onward to your home! "_La Allah ilia Allah!_ Yea, Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say!

_He who died at Asan gave This to those that made his grave._

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

[11] The hour of prayer; esteemed a blessed time to die.

IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE.

It is not death to die, To leave this weary road, And, midst the brotherhood on high, To be at home with God.

It is not death to close The eye long dimmed by tears, And wake in glorious repose, To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear The wrench that sets us free From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling Aside this sinful dust, And rise on strong, exulting wing, To live among the just.

Jesus, thou Prince of Life, Thy chosen cannot die! Like Thee they conquer in the strife, To reign with Thee on high.

GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

There is no death! the stars go down To rise upon some other shore, And bright in heaven's jewelled crown They shine forever more.

There is no death! the forest leaves Convert to life the viewless air; The rocks disorganize to feed The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! the dust we tread Shall change, beneath the summer showers, To golden grain, or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the leaves may fall. The flowers may fade and pass away-- They only wait, through wintry hours, The warm sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth of joy Are worthy of our love or care, Whose loss has left us desolate, Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a dreary waste, We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into paradise, Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of bird-like melody That we have missed and mourned so long Now mingles with the angel choir In everlasting song.

There is no death! although we grieve When beautiful, familiar forms That we have learned to love are torn From our embracing arms;

Although with bowed and breaking heart, With sable garb and silent tread, We bear their senseless dust to rest, And say that they are "dead."

They are not dead! they have but passed Beyond the mists that blind us here Into the new and larger life Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay To put their shining raiment on; They have not wandered far away-- They are not "lost" or "gone."

Though disenthralled and glorified, They still are here and love us yet; The dear ones they have left behind They never can forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint Amid temptations fierce and deep, Or when the wildly raging waves Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; Their arms enfold us, and our hearts Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us, though unseen, The dear, immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life--there are no dead.

JAMES L. M'CREERY.

1863.

GOING AND COMING.

Going--the great round Sun, Dragging the captive Day Over behind the frowning hill, Over beyond the bay,-- Dying: Coming--the dusky Night, Silently stealing in, Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch Where the golden-haired Day hath been Lying.

Going--the bright, blithe Spring; Blossoms! how fast ye fall, Shooting out of your starry sky Into the darkness all Blindly! Coming--the mellow days: Crimson and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits Kissing the bearded sheaves Kindly!

Going--our early friends; Voices we loved are dumb; Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; Fainter the echoes come Ringing: Coming to join our march,-- Shoulder to shoulder pressed,-- Gray-haired veterans strike their tents For the far-off purple West-- Singing!

Going--this old, old life; Beautiful world, farewell! Forest and meadow! river and hill! Ring ye a loving knell O'er us! Coming--a nobler life; Coming--a better land; Coming--a long, long, nightless day; Coming--the grand, grand Chorus!

EDWARD A. JENKS.

BLIND.

Laughing, the blind boys Run 'round their college lawn, Playing such games of buff Over its dappled grass!

See the blind frolicsome Girls in blue pinafores, Turning their skipping ropes!

How full and rich a world Theirs to inhabit is! Sweet scent of grass and bloom, Playmates' glad symphony. Cool touch of western wind, Sunshine's divine caress. How should they know or feel They are in darkness?

But--O the miracle! If a Redeemer came, Laid fingers on their eyes-- One touch--and what a world New born in loveliness!

Spaces of green and sky, Hulls of white cloud adrift, Ivy-grown college walls, Shining loved faces!

What a dark world--who knows? Ours to inhabit is! One touch, and what a strange Glory might burst on us! What a hid universe!

Do we sport carelessly, Blindly, upon the verge Of an Apocalypse?

ISRAEL ZANGWILL.

THE DEATH OF DEATH.

SONNET CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more. So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

INDEX: TITLES AND AUTHORS

_For occupation, nativity, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers of the American poetical works, see General Index of Authors, Volume X._

ÆSCHYLUS. PAGE. Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (_Mrs. Browning's Translation_) 156

AGATHIAS. Time's Revenge (_Bland's Translation_) 72

ALDRICH, JAMES. Death-Bed, A 306

ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. Parting Lovers, The (_From the Chinese_) 104

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. Dirty Old Man, The 55

ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN. After Death in Arabia. 452 Secret of Death, The 434

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. Requiescat 307

AUSTIN, ALFRED. Agatha 13

AUSTIN, SARAH TAYLOR. Passage, the (_German of Uhland_) 342

AYTON OR AYTOUN, SIR ROBERT. Woman's Inconstancy 71

BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM. World, The 151

BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. Death in Youth (_Festus_) 428

BALLANTINE, JAMES. "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew" 241

BARBAULD, ANNA LÆTITIA. Life 400

BARNARD, LADY ANNE. Auld Robin Gray 32

BARR, AMELIA EDITH. Bottom Drawer, The 405

BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 269